Chapter 18
THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER
My thoughts are whirled like a potter’s wheel;
I know not where I am, nor what I do.
—William Shakespeare
Henry VI, Part 1
For the next three days I heard nothing of Brisbane—either of his health or the investigation.
I planned menus with Cook, read to Simon, hounded Val about getting rid of the illicit raven and snapped at Morag.
It seemed there were a hundred little domestic problems that needed to be handled—one of the maids quit, one of the footmen was malingering, a stray cat had had kittens in the butler’s pantry—but resolving them proved unsatisfying.
It was too tempting to wave a hand at Aquinas and delegate.
But then I was left with my unruly thoughts and my twitching nerves and that was no better.
I thought many times about visiting Brisbane.
Not to actually see him, of course. Just a polite call to offer a token of my concern for Monk to deliver.
Surely a little gift to speed his convalescence would not be amiss, I told myself.
I could leave it with his man and perhaps glean a few details about Brisbane’s condition.
He had recovered swiftly from his swoon.
Doctor Bent had applied a little sal volatile and Brisbane had come round quickly enough.
But he was still weak and haggard and Doctor Bent had insisted upon putting him to bed—after escorting me firmly but respectfully to the door.
I did not blame him. It must have been disconcerting enough to deal with Brisbane in his condition without my gawking like a tourist at the sight.
But I was curious, I could not deny it. To the eye, Brisbane was a healthy-looking specimen—robust, even.
I was wildly interested in what sort of malady could fell so vibrant a person.
And the thought that Doctor Bent might have sent along some sort of report about Edward that Brisbane was too indisposed to forward to me gnawed at me terribly.
I toyed for a while with the idea of a basket of Cook’s choicest pastries and a bottle of the best wine in the cellar, selected by Aquinas, but in the end my better instincts took over.
Better instincts, or perhaps my cowardice.
Twice now I had seen him in the throes of his infirmity, and twice I had fled back to Grey House without a backward glance.
There was something quite disturbing about seeing a man like Brisbane in such a state.
Inquisitive as I was, I could not quite bring myself to call upon him simply to satisfy my own curiosity.
Instead, I applied myself to the clearing out of my study—a room long overdue for a good turn out.
I swept up heaps of unfinished knitting and incomplete watercolour books, bundling them into a cupboard and promising myself that as soon as the investigation was finished, I would bring my little projects to completion.
For now, it seemed like a bit of an accomplishment just to get them out of sight.
I moved on to the bookshelves, pulling out piles of unread newspapers and putting them aside for Aquinas to deal with.
I straightened the books, flicked a duster over them, and made up my mind to let the maids into the room in future.
I was certainly not keeping it tidy, much less clean.
The dust was appalling, and I kept sneezing as I burrowed down into stacks of books I had not seen in ages.
There were volumes I had brought to my marriage—books of my childhood, much-loved editions with worn covers and jam stains from sticky fingers.
I turned over the leaves, spotting the brown rings from teacups and the occasional pale mark where I had used a leaf as a bookmark.
There was my Psalter as well, a gift from the Princess of Wales upon my confirmation.
It was marked with the three Wales feathers and her initials in gilt on the leather cover, and inscribed in her own hand on the flyleaf.
I turned it over, delighted to see it again.
She had been Princess of Wales for only seven years when I was confirmed, and I had been completely in awe of her.
She was utterly lovely, and I had been thrilled to own something she had touched with her own pretty hands.
I ran my fingers over the cover, mourning the state of the book.
I should have taken better care of it. It had been the most elegant thing I owned for many years.
Now the morocco cover was dry and cracking and the gilt cipher flaking.
I opened it, almost afraid to look at the silk ribbon, which was certain to be splitting.
Really, I did not deserve to own nice things if I could not take better care of them, I chided myself.
I leafed through the pages, then bent swiftly over some damage I had not expected.
The ribbon was indeed splitting, but it was the hole in the page that was most disconcerting.
What sort of worm or moth had done that?
But I knew as soon as the question had formed in my mind that no insect had done this damage. The Psalter had been damaged by human hands—hands with very sharp scissors.
I looked at the book for a long moment, feeling a rush of excitement, I am ashamed to say.
For I held in my hands our first genuine clue.
The verse that had been scissored from my Psalter was not the one glued to the note I had discovered in the desk, but I had no doubt it had been affixed to one of those that Brisbane had seen.
I could not remember how many notes Edward had received altogether—I could not even remember if Brisbane had ever told me.
But I was bone certain that they all began with this harmless little book.
I paged through it carefully, almost at arm’s length now. It was distasteful, really. Someone else had used this personal volume and it felt polluted. But it was necessary to scrutinize it for more clues and I did so with enthusiasm. There were six holes altogether.
I sat back on my heels, considering. The person who had threatened Edward had taken my Psalter and carefully excised the passages he wanted, then replaced it.
This argued that the person had kept it for some time—a person with access to my house, at least twice—once to take the book and once to return it.
The implications were faintly horrifying, and I knew exactly what I must do.
I rose and went to the desk in search of a bit of brown paper in which to wrap the book. When it was a neat parcel, I slipped it into my pocket and rang for Aquinas to prepare a basket of fruit. It was time to see Brisbane, indisposition or not.